Mummy in the Making. Victoria Pade
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Kincaid chuckled. “He thinks you’re pretty.”
The dizziness finally passed and Issa could see straight again. She cast a glance at the little boy who, despite his undefined features, resembled the man too much not to be closely related to him, and said an uncertain, “Thank you?”
“Wilcome.”
“That’s you’re welcome,” her landlord translated. “And this is Asher, by the way. My son. He’s two and a half, with a mind of his own. And he’s apparently developing a taste in women…” Hutch Kincaid added somewhat under his breath, sounding amused.
Issa got to her feet then and was rewarded with a closer view of her hubba-hubba-handsome landlord.
And oh, but he was hubba-hubba-handsome, more so now that he was smiling slightly, a smile that drew lines from the corners of his nose to bracket his nimble-looking mouth.
But she was in absolutely no position to be paying any attention whatsoever to how handsome he was, she reminded herself.
“I’m sorry, I don’t usually sleep in the daytime, but I was really out of it…” she lied. The truth was that lately sleeping was all she wanted to do night and day, and napping had become nothing unusual for her.
“It’s okay,” Hutch Kincaid assured her in an understanding tone, his gaze dropping for a split second to the pamphlets, making it clear that he’d seen them and put two and two together.
And that was when something else occurred to Issa.
While she hadn’t met Hutch Kincaid before this, she’d learned through her brother and half sister that he was connected to her family through his own family and friends.
And this was Northbridge where word could travel like wildfire….
All of which made her think she’d better address the subject right away.
“Yes, I’m pregnant. And unmarried, unattached—” Why was she telling him that?
Oh, she was just never, ever at her best meeting new people. She always made blunders, and now, when she was already thrown off-kilter by her overall situation, when it was all too fresh for her to have become comfortable with, she supposed she shouldn’t be shocked that she was particularly bumbling.
She shook her head as if that would erase her awkwardness and tried to make enough sense of what she was saying to get her point across. “No one here—no one—knows, so please—”
Hutch Kincaid held up one hand, palm out. “It’s okay. It won’t come from me,” he said.
But still feeling exposed, Issa scooped up the pamphlets and shoved them under the couch cushion to get them out of sight.
Then, desperate to regain some sense of normalcy, she said, “Can I have just a minute to splash some water on my face? Maybe you could look at the lock while I do…”
“Sure,” the big man agreed.
And Issa made a beeline to the bathroom.
For a moment after she reached it, she merely leaned her back against the door she’d shut firmly behind herself. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head forward and again shook it—this time cursing the shyness that she’d always suffered, that had once again made her act like a ninny. Why couldn’t she just be smooth?
But it was too late for that with her landlord. He probably already thought she was an idiot. An unmarried, pregnant idiot.
Nothing like making a good first impression….
Oh, no, and she hadn’t even introduced herself! He’d introduced himself. And his son. But she’d overlooked that simple civility, too.
I really am a ninny. A socially inept ninny….
Disgusted with herself, Issa sighed and pushed away from the door. To her right was the sink, to her left was the linen closet that was hidden when the bathroom door was open.
She turned and rummaged in the linen closet.
The apartment was small—a single bedroom, a single bath, with the living room, kitchen and dining area all in the one open space she’d just fled. She liked the place, though. She’d been told that the remodel that had turned it into a duplex had only recently been completed, and that everything was new, including all the furnishings. She’d needed only her own towels, linens and kitchenware, so unpacking had been easily accomplished in the two days she’d been living there.
She took a washcloth and a hand towel from the closet and rotated to face the sink.
Wetting the washcloth, she buried her face in it and hoped for a surge of the energy and oomph that pregnancy seemed to have robbed her of. But still she just wanted to sleep.
Maybe it was some kind of psychological need to escape the situation she’d found herself in.
Except that the pamphlets said to expect to feel fatigued and to need some extra rest as her body adjusted.
Hurry up and adjust, she told herself. Because she had a whole lot more to deal with than mere hormones.
She dried her face and took a look in the mirror above the sink.
Rosy glow—the pamphlets had talked about that, too, and surprisingly, Issa could see it. She’d always had an extremely pale complexion, but now her coloring couldn’t be better—her high cheekbones were petal pink, making her look robustly healthy even without blush.
That was a good thing, she thought. One of the few advantages to pregnancy.
That and the fact that her previously A-cup breasts had already gone to a B. She didn’t have any complaints about that, either.
And in spite of how tired she felt most of the time, there weren’t any circles under her blue-green eyes—she was grateful for that. At least nothing gave away how she felt.
Now if only the pamphlets were wrong about the potential for hair loss or dullness. She liked her light, flaxen hair the way it was—although at the moment one side of it had escaped the clip that had been holding the shoulder-length locks at the back of her head and it looked awful.
Great, bedhead…
Another way in which she was not happy to have met Hutch Kincaid.
She took the clip out, quickly ran a brush through her hair and then caught it in the back again where she reclipped it.
Sprucing up for her handsome landlord?
That wasn’t what she was doing, she reasoned. She just wanted to be presentable.
Which was also why she applied the light lip gloss.
And when it came to adding a touch of mascara even though she hadn’t put any on earlier today? That was just so she looked more bright-eyed and not like some slug-a-bed who slept the afternoons away.
In her clothes….
How did they look?
Checking, she judged that her jeans showed no evidence that she’d been sleeping in them. She just wished that they weren’t her puttering-around-the-house jeans, that they were her better jeans. One of the other pairs that didn’t sag in the seat.
Not that it mattered what her seat did.
As for the cap-sleeved T-shirt she had on? It was slightly rumpled, so she tugged on the hem to stretch the wrinkles out of it. That pulled the V-neckline lower, although not low enough to show cleavage. But because the T-shirt was a bit on the snug side, it still showed off the single visible clue that she was pregnant—her blossoming chest.
Why that had even crossed her mind she didn’t know. It shouldn’t have.
But the new B-cups did make her T-shirts look a lot better. It was just about her general appearance, and had nothing whatsoever to do with who might